Respect the Classics
by PT Malvik
Summary: Some beginnings are rough, but worth the ride. [Sarge and Fillmore friendship]


Title: Respect the Classics

Fandom: "Cars" (The Movie)

Pairing: Sarge and Fillmore friendship (PG13)

Summary: Some beginnings are a bit rough, but are worth the ride.

o0o0o

The strains of two versions of "The Star Spangled Banner" mingled and clashed that dawn, just as they did every morning since the first release of "Woodstock Live", which Fillmore had picked up after attending the famous concert itself, all those years ago. Like most of the residents of Radiator Springs, he'd wandered into town mostly by accident, after a few days spent chugging a _little _too much of his homemade fuel and heading down Route 66 without a care in the world.

That is, not until he somehow overturned into the cactus field, his tires in the air and his head a bit more muddled than it ever had been before. He remembered laying there for a long time, his stereo still playing loudly (it was a beauty for its day, six speakers, brand-new eight track player and double bass, all custom built) and his brain trying hard to work its way through a prickly fog. But, like a beetle on its back, turning over without help would be impossible, so Fillmore knew he was stuck and stuck good until help came.

Hours passed without rescue. It seemed hopeless, but Fillmore was an optimist, so he relaxed and let the cosmic forces of Fate take their course.

And what a Fate it turned out to be.

"Hey there! You, with the godawful racket coming from your trunk! What are you doing down there?"

The voice coming from the ridge above was authoritative and unswervingly grumpy, but Fillmore liked to think the best of everyone, even The Man. Straining to speak while in the upside down position, Fillmore responded politely. "Sorry, man ... or madam ... or whoever you. See, I kinda took a bad trip and landed down here among our spiky brethren, where I've been communing with nature for a time -- uncomfortably, mind you -- but I could use a hand up now."

The voice didn't sound impressed. "A bad trip, huh? You're one of those damned hippies, aren't you?"

"I prefer to think of myself as a Child of the Manufacturer."

A derisive snort sounded from the ridge. "I knew we'd be infected with your type sooner or later. All right, Hippie. Stay there and I'll get Mater."

"Thanks, man," Fillmore called back, as the Voice's engine roared off. He wiggled his tires in the air. "I will be staying here, as you requested."

From a distance, he heard in reply ... "And turn off that horrible music!"

Fillmore pretended not to hear that and turned his music up, just a tiny notch. His radio was still picking up some groovy tunes, and everything was mostly all right, except he found himself to be exceptionally thirsty. As in _'whoa, man, thirsty_'.

"What I'd give for some sweet Acapulco Gold Unleaded right now, man," he said to himself with a sigh. Almost unconsciously, Fillmore felt his tongue wiggle out and tentatively touch one of the broken cactus stems, which was leaking a clear, sweet-smelling liquid. "I wonder if this stuff is okay to ..."

He didn't get the word "drink" out. The minute he swallowed down a mouthful of the cactus juice, the world turned inside-out, straight into the most fantastic, amazing mind trip Fillmore had ever experienced. The sky melted into the desert floor, like blueberry ice cream dripping onto a plate of cherry sauce, the radio's music spun over him in colorful circles, a chorus line of rainbow-tinted tires and everything smelled good enough to eat, especially ...

It wasn't until five hours later, when Doc was finished plucking the last cactus spine from his tongue that Fillmore cried, "I love this place, man! I am NEVER leaving!"

"Oh great," his savior, Sarge the Jeep, moaned from the back of Doc's office. "We're stuck with a damned hippie."

0o0o0o

It was 1970 when Fillmore opened his Organic Fuel shop, right next to Sarge's Army Surplus Hut. Sarge's horror couldn't have been greater at the time -- he had ranted about his terrible visions of glo-in-the-dark vans and shaggy carpeted VW's invading the town on a daily basis to anyone who would listen -- but in truth, business was becoming so bad, he eventually became glad for the company, even if he wouldn't admit as much.

Route 66 had turned lonely in the past decade and once the recession hit, everything got a hundred times worse as even the Interstate suffered for a lack of visitors. Radiator Springs had turned into a ghost town, its few lonely residents barely scratching by. But, Sarge dutifully got up every morning as he'd done since his first commission in the army some thirty-odd years before and prepared for a new day with the raising of the flag to the National Naval Band playing the Star Spangled Banner, which was always rudely interrupted by a shameful, screeching version by some freaked up no-good.

The first week of this battle of the anthems was annoying, by the second year, it had turned into _war_ and if there was something Sarge knew a little bit about, it was war.

It was a bright summer morning when Sarge finally cracked and rolled into Fillmore's tent, wearing a combat helmet and tires, empty surplus bazooka waving. Fillmore stared blearily at him, not really concerned until Sarge flipped his pile of records onto the floor and backed up, intending to crush 'that disrespectful garbage' once and for all.

"Whoa, man!" Fillmore cried. "Wait ..."

"Forget it!" Sarge yelled, revving his engine. "This is it, buster!"

"But man ... " Fillmore said plaintively. He looked at Sarge beseechingly. "I can't afford new ones."

Sarge paused, lowering the bazooka. Poverty was something every resident in Radiator Springs had become well aquatinted with in recent years and Sarge felt a wave of shame overwhelm him. What kind of soldier was he? Threatening an unarmed citizen, intent on destroying their property just because of his own personal frustration?

Slowly, he backed out of Fillmore's tent, his hood hanging low.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the Surplus Hut door. "We're not open," Sarge mumbled.

"Hey, man, I don't want to buy anything, I just want to talk."

It was Fillmore, and Sarge sighed. He rolled over to the door and slid it open. "I wouldn't talk to me any more if I were you. I'm a disgrace to my rank and unit. What I did was inexcusable and I apologize. I'm sorry."

"It's cool, man." Fillmore said simply, then leaned in conspiratorially. "That wasn't my classics collection anyway. That was the Perry Camero stack. I've been using it as kindling for my fuel production."

Sarge blinked at him and spluttered, "You've been melting Perry Camero records? To make that _freak juice_?"

"Yeah, man. That old crap burns _great_. Goes up like a forest fire."

Proudly, and there was a long moment of silence, before Sarge sighed. "I don't think we're ever going to get along."

Fillmore smiled lazily. "That's cool too, man. It'd be a pretty boring world without the you and me types in it, wouldn't it?"

For the first time in a long time, Sarge found himself grinning. "I suppose it would."

"See you later by the corner, man," Fillmore said as he rolled out. "I found a new article on government conspiracies I'm sure you'd be pretty interested in."

"Phht," Sarge scoffed, closing the door behind him, albeit gently. "I think I know a little bit more about the government than you."

"Con-spiiiirrr-a-cies, man. They are _everywhere_."

"Get the hell out of here, hippie."

o0o0o

reviews are very welcome and appreciated.


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